Rated R Gets a Grade A

Before the release of her latest album, Rated R, I thought Rihanna was representative of everything that was wrong with the music industry; she was a beautiful, blank mouthpiece with no discernible talent churning out soulless pop-drivel. But after the awful events of Grammy night 2009, something seemingly shifted within Rihanna the artist. She suddenly had a voice, an opinion she intelligently articulated on the talk show rounds she made in the latter part of 2009. She got rid of the soft, feminine clothes and armored herself in masculine-edged fashion and put out a piece of work that has a definitive viewpoint. A viewpoint that feels authentic; I not only believe this Rihanna, I'm interested in her.

Rude Boy, a reggae-tinged, club thumping ode to thugs-lite is the obvious standout. It combines the fun escapism of Rihanna's previous singles with a sexual aggression aware of its own bite (sample lyrics: "If I don't feel it, I ain't faking, oh no"). It's sly and sexy without being either crass or a desperate attempt by a child star to proclaim their newfound adulthood. The second strongest song on Rated R is the Justin Timberlake co-penned Cold Case Love. It sounds like an outtake to Timberlake's brilliant 2006 release FutureSexLoveSound and Rihanna's voice shows a fragile agility that deftly conveys the song's elegant heartbreak.

Rated R is not a pop record; it makes a fetish out of its inaccessibility. Rihanna's voice is still nasally and borderline untenable but on Rated R it's used as a sonic weapon that accentuates the aggression underlining her new songs. Her voice, along with her ugly cute hairdo and militaristic clothes, is her chain mail. She's no longer the cute girl next door but a woman who knows herself and demands you take her as is.